


The White Wolf's Tail

by Amarryllis (Amarryllis_88), Amarryllis_88



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Choking, Coercion, Fuck Or Die, Gratuitous songs, M/M, Multi, Post-Episode 6, Rimming, Sex by weird magical proxy, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, how do i even tag this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22606387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarryllis_88/pseuds/Amarryllis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarryllis_88/pseuds/Amarryllis_88
Summary: “As curious as I am,” the sorceress continued, never looking away even as she addressed Jaskier “I am not foolish enough go anywhere near an angry witcher. But you, dear? Oh, you lack such reservations, to say the least. A slave to the wants and desires of your public, was it? I couldn't have said it better myself. Little bird, you will feel him for me.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg (mentioned)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 473
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	1. Chapter 1

When Geralt came to, it was violent. His consciousness crashed into him like a wave without the grogginess of sleep to dull the blow. The colors of the room blinded him, an assault of bright paint and shimmering draperies. He felt all at once the cold floor, his aching knees, the bite of iron around his wrist. The initial cacophony settled into the joyous strumming of a lute and the witcher remembered. With heavy worry in his gut and a bitter apology under his tongue, he had been searching for a bard reported missing. He had been searching for Jaskier.

“O king of beasts! O mighty wolf!  
What monster do we trail?  
O my poor friend, my mighty wolf,  
Where are you chasing your tail?” the bard sang, his trained tenor dancing with the words.

And it really was Jaskier. Geralt could not see his face but there was no mistaking it. It was his familiar form dressed in garish silk and kneeling before a woman who lounged lazily in a chair.

“He chased his tail over the tallest mountain,  
Chased it through the wind and the pouring rain,  
Followed it straight to a gold dragon's lair,  
And between the legs of a lady fair!”

The witcher had never wished so much to strangle someone he was attempting to save.

“Oh! The White wolf's tail-”

“Jaskier.” Geralt grunted in warning. He would not suffer any more of that damned song.

The bard almost jumped out of his skin at the sound and sent a sheepish look over his shoulder.

“Geralt. You know, I had really hoped you'd come back to your senses _after_ this particular piece.”

He said it with a sorry grin that highlighted his split lip and bruised cheek. The brightness of it didn't reach his eyes. Geralt simply hummed and the lady erupted in delighted giggles. She had a perfect row of pearly white teeth, a beauty so unblemished it was almost ethereal and a gaze that held both power and the weariness of a soul to old. The witcher spent more than enough time longing after a woman of her kind to recognize her exactly for what she was: a sorceress. That would at least explain his brutal waking. He had been enchanted. He probably even fastened the metal leash to his own wrist.

“Your songs are about him, little bird.” the woman said. “Don't you think he deserves to hear them?”

“Trust me, I heard enough.” Geralt intervened. A hard yank on his chain confirmed it was solidly anchored to the wall. “What do you want?”

The sorceress turned to him indifferent eyes. They were somehow bluer than Jaskier's.

“With you?” she said. “Not anything terribly important. Nilfgaard, however, very much wanted you out of reach of your child surprise. Your company is simply a bonus. Luckily for you, your little bard is quite entertaining. You would both be dead otherwise.” She reached down to cup Jaskier's jaw. Jaskier who went deathly still at the touch. “Do you have any idea how many songs he composed about your more... salacious exploits? You don't, do you? Such a shame.”

The bard's skin went from white with fear to pink with embarrassment. His gaze flitted from the sorceress to Geralt to his desperate grip on the lacquered wood of his lute. His mouth, as always, didn't stay shut.

“W-well, ballads of the more carnal kind do a swift job of emptying drunk pockets. I am but a lowly entertainer, slave to the wants and desires of my public. So really-”

“No need to be shy.” The woman pressed a pointed nail to Jaskier's split lip, effectively shutting him up. “I am quite curious myself. As you are. Chaos is a wonderfully versatile thing, little bird. It allows me to see right through your eyes, like a window to your fleeting thoughts. I could experience everything you feel, if I so desired.”

Her smile was a shard of ice that spread cold dread in Geralt's chest. She watched him hungrily as she ran sharp fingers through Jaskier's hair. The bard was pointedly not looking at anything, not moving, barely even breathing. At least, his back was still straight and his chin raised defiantly. The witcher, for once, was thankful for Jaskier's bizarre amalgam of debilitating fear and unbreakable spirit.

“As curious as I am,” the sorceress continued, never looking away even as she addressed Jaskier “I am not foolish enough go anywhere near an angry witcher. But you, dear? Oh, you lack such reservations, to say the least. A slave to the wants and desires of your public, was it? I couldn't have said it better myself. Little bird, you will feel him for me.”

There was a beat of horrified silence at the suggestion, one that Jaskier was quick to fill, as he was wont to do, with a disbelieving protest.

“You cannot possibly mean this! Whatever implications of passion you might have caught a glimpse of in my songs or-” The bard's breath caught in his throat and he swallowed to ease the passage of his next words. “or in my head, I can assure you they are not reciprocated. I cannot imagine this ending up pleasant. For anyone. Surely, my lady, there is something else you want.”

Geralt carefully did not think over the meaning barely hidden in Jaskier's words. Not now. He focused instead on the look his singer was giving the mage. It was a familiar one. One that was pliant and playful. One that had promised a good time to countless countesses and barmaids and delivered. In this instance, it was only a mask on Jaskier's inviting features, but a terribly well crafted one. The woman smiled at him, charmed, yet knowing, and placed a fond hand on the bard's cheek. If Geralt had any doubt on how Jaskier had kept her entertained before, they were now gone. That knowledge cemented his cold hatred towards the woman. He decided, right then, that he would have her head.

“I don't think you quite understood, dear. You will feel him for me” the sorceress repeated “and I will feel him through you. Or I have no more use for either of you alive.”

Geralt caught Jaskier's gaze, then, and the direness of the situation dawned on them both. The bard looked panicked; the witcher, seething.

“Choose wisely” the woman added as she extended her hand towards a water pitcher that rested on a low table beside her.

Geralt's objection was far less eloquent than his friend's.

“Fuck.”

Then he lost the chance to make any argument because the sorceress dipped her fingers in the pitcher, her pink lips moved to whisper and, suddenly, Geralt was coughing. He barely had the time to register the torrent of water that came gurgling out of his mouth. His lungs seized with pain, heavy and burning, as he heard a distressed shout of his name. He yanked on the chain to no avail, slammed his fist against his chest in the vain hope of beating the liquid out and tried uselessly to think past the bubbling and spasming of his throat. Brutal coughs bent him in half, but hands grabbed his shoulders to yank him upright. Something warm and trembling pressed against his mouth in a parody of a kiss and, as abruptly as it had appeared, the water was gone.

Geralt grabbed fistfuls of fabric to hold the other away and took a few greedy breaths. His eyes opened to Jaskier's wide gaze and tousled hair, his fingers still borrowed in the silk of his doublet.

“Geralt! Thank the gods!” the bard sighed in relief.

His cheeks were wet, the witcher noted, but he couldn't tell if it was the work of tears or water he had coughed up in his face. Both were entirely possible.

“Look, witcher, I know this is probably the last thing you want.” Jaskier reasoned nervously. “I am not exactly thrilled by the prospect myself, but I will not have either of us die for this. Please. Think of poor Roach. You would be leaving her an orphan. Oh... Oh, no. Scratch that, do not think of Roach at any point!”

Jaskier's rambling continued to tiptoe into the territory of unhinged and Geralt pulled his bard to him to quiet it. It was not a kiss, as Jaskier might have expected considering how he tensed like a bowstring, but a simple embrace. The witcher just held him to his chest for as long as he dared, both trying to convey some emotion through the touch and delay their inevitable fate, if only a bit.

“Alright. Alright, Jaskier.” the witcher whispered against his ear. He breathed deeply then added: “I'm sorry.”

It was long overdue and nowhere near enough. Only, if he did not say it now, Geralt feared he might lose the chance to say it at all. Not daring to test any more the patience of their captor, he leveled cold eyes at the woman.

“If we do this, promise to let the bard go. I don't suppose Nilfgaard wants anything with him.”

She raised and unimpressed eyebrow at his demand and scoffed.

“If your performance merits it, witcher, I will consider letting him go. Now, enough of your dawdling.” The sorceress unhooked a pendant from her neck and brought it up to her lips, as if to murmur a secret against the stone, before tossing it towards Jaskier. “Put this on, little bird, and enjoy him thoroughly. I want to feel every part of him.”

She then laid back languidly on the plush chair to observe them, pleased as can be. Geralt couldn't rein in the angry growl that escaped his abused throat at the sight of her grin. Letting Jaskier grab and put on the pendant meant loosening his grip around him. It also meant meeting his eyes. His eyes that were too blue and too open and a too blatant reminder of an already wounded friendship. The witcher wondered how they were supposed to go through this if they could barely look at each other. Still, he put a gentle hand against the bard's cheek and forced himself to look, because he knew that the solemn nod Jaskier gave him would be the closest thing he would get to consent before he bent down to kiss him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind comments guys!  
> This is not a super long chapter, but I am a lazy person and flu kicked my ass last week.  
> Hope you enjoy!

Their lips locked together stiffly, like rusty hinges on a door that was never cared for. There was a time, a place where this could've been pleasant: on a cold night by the side of a campfire, after a drink too many in the stuffy heat of an inn, before a goodbye at a crossroad where their paths split for a time. However, as soft and clever as that mouth was, Geralt felt only the rabbit-fast beating of Jaskier's pulsing blood. He could taste it, just behind the surface of the bruised skin. His scent was a familiar mix of citrus and spices, that he probably overpaid for, with an undertone of warmth that was just him. He smelled liked mulled wine, but sorrow and fear had turned it sour.

They both came up for a breath and it was evident in their silence that this wasn't working. Still, Geralt's hands never left his bard's shoulder and hip. They gripped him all the more, in fact, because it had to and he was becoming more and more afraid that, for their jagged pieces to fit together, something would have to break. Then Jaskier chuckled.

“This is what I have been lauding in so many songs? Surely not.” he teased. “I've made your reputation, witcher. Try to live up to it.”

Apparently, Geralt was too focused on things breaking to notice that Jaskier had been polishing away at his edges. His heart had settled to some extend. Something had slid in or out of place; he couldn't tell. The bard summoned a blinding smile and the witcher stayed stunned as he climbed into his lap. He was all fluid motions and easy caresses, molding around him. It was then Geralt realized Jaskier was giving him the same look he had given her.

And he couldn't take it. He pulled him tighter still, too tight probably, to contain him. One arm snaked around his waist; the other, into his hair. Jaskier just bent with it in a way Geralt knew he never could and let him bury his anger in the tender skin of his neck. He bit there which earned him a double-edged moan. Jaskier's tenor had a feminine echo that sent shivers down his spine and a swift look towards the sorceress caught her stroking a perfectly immaculate neck. She would make his bard bear the marks of her desire while allowing none on herself.

“Oh” she mused. “Don't be afraid to bite, witcher. He likes it.”

The iron burned Geralt wrist. He would cut off his own hand if it allowed him to traverse the room and murder her, but he and no sword and, thus, no hope. Except maybe...

“I may be able to get the chain off.” he murmured just below Jaskier's ear. “If I break my hand.”

He pressed a kiss to the vivid bite mark: an apology, an offer. Jaskier replied by tugging hard at the fastenings of his shirt.

“You would be dead as soon as she notices.” he spoke under his breath, so quietly that even Geralt's keen ear almost missed it. “And it is not subtle.”

“Hmm.”

“I know that you do not want this. Forgive me.”

His friend's hands slid under the rough fabric and Geralt hissed. They ran lightly over his chest, yet the tip of his fingers, calloused by the cords of his lute, left goosebumps in their wake.

“Take this thing off of him, little bird.”

Without pause, Jaskier obeyed. He did not comment either or even looked him in the face, just pushed at the garment until Geralt gave in and raised his arms. Deft and gentle hands peeled the fabric off of him, careful not to let a button catch in the tangle of his hair. It was far from the first time Jaskier had helped him undress. Geralt had never noticed really how much care the bard put into it.

They both cringed at the hum of pleasure from the sorceress when Jaskier resumed his exploration. He was still avoiding Geralt's eyes, who frankly could not blame him, but there was an emotion on his face that the witcher couldn't place. It had seeped through the cracks of his earlier affected confidence, eroded that mask down to dust and now threatened to swallow Jaskier whole in it's tide. The witcher took hold of his hips to shift them and move things along. He could at least shorten the bard's plight, he thought. As he moved, he felt a telling hardness against his thigh.

He froze. Jaskier sobbed.

“F-Forgive me.” he repeated. “I'm sorry.”

Understanding slammed into Geralt like the blow of a kikimore. Shame. It was shame that Jaskier was drowning in and it was all the witcher's fault. He had made his only friend feel so unwanted, so unworthy, that he had been convinced Geralt would deem this kind of attention an insult. He was probably expecting disgust, maybe wrath or even pity. How could he have failed someone so thoroughly? How could he ever atone for this?

He came short of an answer. Still, he vowed to right his wrongs, as much of them as he could, and it started with a simple thing. His bard was still sitting on his thigh and Geralt kept him there. He placed an affectionate kiss on the mop of brown hair.

“ _Don't be_. There is nothing to forgive.”

The rest would need to wait.

“Come _on_ , witcher.” whined the witch.

“What!?.” he snapped at the interruption.

“If it's brotherly kisses I want- _aanh!_ ”

Geralt saw her pretty eyes go wide with surprise as she cut herself off with a squeal at the same time as he felt Jaskier move against him, a roll of the hips that pulled a quiet groan from his lips. He quickly glanced down at the bard who shrugged, still looking somewhat unsure.

“Well, uh, sorry, but it worked. I don't think it's wise to get into a yelling match with our kidnapper, Geralt.”

The frown deep-set in Geralt's brow probably wasn't helping his unease, but the witcher was busy considering. Jaskier was right: it worked. It might just work well enough to get them out of here. It would be risky and it would be painful, still it might work. The bard was studying his face and Geralt pulled him in for a rough kiss before he could decipher something in his expression that he was not supposed to.  
Because Jaskier couldn't know. He disliked seeing him hurt, gagged at the sound of broken bones, let his emotions run his mind and Geralt needed him distracted. In fact, he needed him nearly out of his mind if he wanted them to have a chance. So he kissed him like he was trying to conquer him, all passion and heat and teeth. The hands sliding from his hips to his thighs and tongue invading his mouth, Jaskier welcomed it all gracefully gave back as much. One of those skilled hand of his slipped in his hair to grab at the silver locks and pull just enough to sting. The other traced the lines of his chest carefully, almost reverently.

It made the witcher wish they had done this before. He lost the opportunity to discover how quickly Jaskier could undo him with those fingers. He just knew it would never come back because he'd already lost it to his anger long before he lost it to this. The thought set him on edge and tension crept up his neck and into the hinges of his jaw. Like an animal trapped, he wanted to growl and bite. He knew the bard would not object because he had been robbed of the chance to find it out for himself and it made the urge worse. It's fulfillment would only leave him bitter.

Geralt grit his teeth and yanked at Jaskier's doublet instead. They had to separate to get him untangled from the silk and out of his shirt. The poet was panting, but the whine Geralt earned when he finally got his hands on skin was entirely too feminine. It rang in his ear in all the worse ways. He realized later it must have shown because when he caressed down Jaskier's ribs, it was only his voice in his ear. Too loud and too close, but blissfully drowning everything else. He felt his heart swell with affection at the sound, before guilt strangled it again. The closer he looked at Jaskier, the more certain he became that he did not deserve him. This man would throw himself between him and his pain and do it with a smile.

A seed of fear sprouted in Geralt's mind as he fiddled with the lacing on the bard's trousers. He stopped in his track to place a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder and waited until those curious eyes met his.

“Jaskier. If I do something you don't like, tell me.” It was phrased as a demand, but the tightness in his voice made it sound like a plea. The witcher figured he might as well make it a proper one. “Please.” he added.

The bard stayed stunned for a second, his mouth slightly agape and very pink. Then, the corners of it turned up into the faintest smile and this one did reach his eyes. The light of it was pale, but it stayed nestled in the blue when Jaskier answered.

“I have not found my way in so many noble beds using only pretty words, Geralt. There is barely a handful of things in this world you could do to me that I would not find some pleasure in.” he declared. “That said, if you happen upon one of them, I promise to tell you. But I firmly doubt it.”

“Hmm. Good.”

Was all he could find to say at the bard's admission. Geralt filled it in the back of his mind with all the rest he would have to ponder later, when they were both safe and out of here. Still, he was a little more confident as he laid Jaskier under him and resumed the task of getting him out of his pants.

He was glad to confirm that apart from the bruised cheek, his bard seemed relatively unarmed. The witcher intended to keep him that way. It's with gentle hands and loving nips going down the man's chest that he made him sing. They were notes of pleasure unrestrained, let out to cover the feminine sighs. Combined with the salt of Jaskier's skin on his tongue and the warm familiar scent of him filling his nose, it was almost enough to shake the feeling of hungry eyes on him. Almost.

“Get out of those pants, witcher.” the sorceress ordered. “I want to see you.”

Geralt snarled against the poet's stomach at the demand. He sat on his heels and glared down at the woman with more disdain than he probably ever felt for anyone before obeying. He discarded the garment with clinical efficiency, unwilling to make this into even more of a show.

She purred regardless at the sight of his body, which was not entirely unaffected. Her gaze roved over his jaw, his chest, his thighs and settled on his half-hard member with blatant disregard for his discomfort.

“Beautiful. You were right, little bird.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads-up: I added tags
> 
> Oh boy, this took forever!  
> Thank you all for the lovely feedback <3

Jaskier was watching him almost as avidly as the sorceress was. His cheeks, however, glowed a bright red and he couldn't quite meet Geralt's eyes. 

“Don't be shy, little bird.” the woman cooed. “Show me how he feels. Tell me how he tastes. I want to know if he lives up to those songs of yours.”

The witcher bristled under her unwavering attention and made a point of staring her down. He stood proud, communicating his anger as best as he could even as Jaskier's hands settled on his thighs. It's how he saw even she was surprised when the bard let out a slightly deranged giggle.

“Jask-”

“It's nothing.” Jaskier reassured him quickly, but his words were strangled. 

Geralt felt the breath of them on his hip. His friend bent so very close to his lap and a warm hand taking hold of him robbed the witcher of most of his vocabulary. Still, he insisted.

“Jaskier.” he called, grabbing the man's shoulder.

The bard shook his head and continued to work him gently.

“Really, it's nothing. I-I just looked at you and I thought... I thought: _There's always a sorceress, isn't there?_ ”

Those blue eyes flicked up to him then, glittering pools of unshed sadness over dry cheeks. And all words withered in Geralt's mouth. His tongue turned to lead, because there was Yennefer and his own foolishness made sure there would always be Yennefer. 

“Just forget it.” Jaskier said before Geralt could find a way to tell him that he also had a place, always open and painfully empty since his bout of misplaced anger.

Then, the bard's eyes fled again. His bold tongue licked a stripe up the witcher's cock and the opportunity was gone. Geralt convinced himself it was not the time or the place for this discussion. He desperately hope it would come to be, someday. 

The heat and softness of his bard's mouth stole his breath. Before it could break what fragile hold he had on the situation, Geralt gently pushed him off and down to lay over him. It didn't exactly help. He was so close to Jaskier that he could smell only him and Jaskier smelled of _them_. 

The witcher trailed kisses and tender nips down his friend's chest, taming the desire to bite. Neither of them chose this. Jaskier deserved, at least, the right to try and forget it happened. Geralt would rather pull out his teeth than force unwanted reminders of it into his skin. Still, his restraint did not keep the bard from moaning sweetly or his pulse from quickening under Geralt's lips. A filthy kiss where the bard's hip met a deceptively strong thigh won him a mewl of pleasure. A firm grip under the other's knee to part his legs made fingers tangle themselves in his hair. He moved to the warm skin between those legs.

“G-Geralt?”

His other hand took hold of a firm cheek and he lavished attention at the uncovered entrance. Clearly, Jaskier had not expected him to do so because his spine snapped into a deep arch as a surprised yelp escaped his lips. It was accompanied by a thud that Geralt felt through the hardwood. 

“Wa-, _ah_ , watch you head, you birdbrain!” 

The voice of the sorceress held as much reprimand as it held pleasure. Jaskier tried to fit an apology between his moans either way, but Geralt wouldn't have it. He redoubled efforts until the undeserved apology turned into curses and moans of his own name, much more pleasing to his sensitive ear. Trusting the bard to hold up his leg by himself, he moved his hand from knee to hard, throbbing length.

“Dear gods, Geralt!” Jaskier panted. “If y-you do that I'll...”

The mere suggestion of it pulled a deep growl from the witcher's chest. Whether Jaskier heard it or _felt_ it, Geralt couldn't tell, but it seemed to push him over the edge. The poet shuddered in the other's grip as he spent himself over his heaving chest. 

A kinder man would have allowed him to recover, but such kindness would let him think and Geralt had other plans. He replaced his tongue by a finger. Saliva made the slide easy enough, still, Jaskier gasped and the sorceress cried out. Geralt turned towards her.

“Hey, witch! If you want this to be pleasant for anyone, we'll need oil.” he demanded.

The woman blinked lazily. She was sprawled over the cushioned chair, one of her hands disappearing under the bunched-up mess of her skirt and revealing milky thighs. With the one that remained free, she gestured vaguely at a spot of the floor behind her prisoners. Geralt looked over his shoulder to discover a small clay dish among their discarded clothes that was definitely not there earlier. Not about to argue against this particular use of magic, he picked it up and brought it to his nose. 

Roses and chamomile: a fairly innocent concoction. Geralt lost no time to dip his fingers in the liquid and press two of them back between Jaskier's cheeks. He couldn't stop himself from reveling in the tight heat, in the sight of flushed skin and pink lips parted around a string of curses. His bard looked like sin and Geralt was guilty of enjoying him when he shouldn't. He had to keep a cool head for both of their sake. So he bit down on his own cheek as he worked in a third finger. He focused on the scent of flowers rather than that of lust. He pinned Jaskier's arm to his side when it reached for him. 

He kept an eye on the sturdy, iron ring that anchored his chain to the wall. Hidden behind them. Close enough to reach. That would do.

The witcher took his fingers back, assessing the state of his friend before going further. Jaskier was panting softly and pawing inefficiently at the hardwood floor instead of trying to reach for Geralt again. Though his eyes stayed firmly shut, he seemed to sense the hesitation.

“I'm fine.” the bard stated. “It's okay.”

That was a lie if Geralt had ever heard one, but they didn't have much choice.

“Okay.” he repeated stiffly, mostly to himself.

His hand went to steady the bard's hips and strong legs wrapped around his waist. Three voices rang in unison when his cock breached the man. Geralt almost lost himself to the sensation of Jaskier's body welcoming him so gracefully, but that third unwanted tone kept him focused. He searched his friend for signs of discomfort and found none. So he moved, listening to Jaskier's breath escaping him in pleasured huffs. He listened for the shout and bit-off curse that followed when he found the angle that made his bard sing. 

Jaskier grabbed at his shoulder in search of something to hold and Geralt welcomed the bite of his nails. He focused on it as the other moaned and writhed under him, ever the performer. His bard's cock was standing proud again, leaking pearls of lust on his stomach. When his eyes rolled back as he gave himself to pleasure, the witcher knew it was his chance.

He jammed his thumb through the iron ring, took a deep breath to steady himself and...

Jaskier's legs gripped him in a vice as he went ice-still. Wide blue eyes jumped from his face to his hand and Geralt damned in thoughts all the gods he knew. As much as Jaskier liked playing fool, Geralt knew very well not to take him for one. Even as he yanked his hand away from the ring and bent to distract him with a desperate kiss, he was aware that his bard had pieced the situation together.

“Don't think about it.” he growled against the other's lips. “Keep her distracted.”

“How?!” Jaskier mouthed back.

_Am I supposed to stay aroused when I hear you breaking your bones?_ , went unsaid, but was very much understood. The witcher could only grunt as an answer because he truly didn't have a better one. That was it. Destiny had once again thwarted his only plan. She had given up on them, it seemed.

But Jaskier didn't. He sighed against Geralt's cheek and took hold of the hand gripping his hip. The witcher looked on, confused, as he moved it up and up across his chest. Until it rested softly around his throat. Jaskier just smirked at him before letting go, eyes closing as he tipped his head back to present his long neck like an offering. Geralt could only stare at his thick, scarred fingers circling the pale flesh. The sheer trust of it stifled the air in his lungs.

He pressed down softly to feel the fluttering pulse under the pad on his thumb. He expected to smell fear on the poet, was prepared to relieve the pressure at the first whiff of it. It never came. Jaskier melted under his hand. He rocked with the thrusts and stroke himself lazily. Geralt tightened his hold until Jaskier's hand went clumsy and started to fall limp. 

A quick look to the side assured him that the sorceress had fallen prey to a similar lethargy. The witcher jammed his thumb into the iron ring and twisted until he felt something give. Burning pain shot up his arm, but his agonized groan fell on deaf ears. Geralt let go off Jaskier to squeeze the metal cuff past his broken, rapidly swelling hand and the bard quivered as blood suddenly resumed it's flow to his brain.

He was still coming back to a sort of sluggish awareness when Geralt stood. He strode across the room, carried by pain and his unbridled fury. The witcher watched the sorceress try to blink the haze away, grabbed the empty water pitcher and, for a second, the world made sense again. He had a monster to kill.

Heavy and grounding, the pottery in his hand would make a decent weapon. He swung down, not wasting a second, but a solid, frigid mass kept him from hitting flesh. Ice. It was sprouting from the woman trembling fingertips and quickly crawling over his skin. 

“Damn you, you monster!” she spat with as much venom as she could muster into her slightly slurred syllables.

The unnatural cold seized Geralt's arm, burning like red-hot nails being driven into muscle and sapping his strength instantly. He raised his broken hand in a mockery of a punch. She smiled before he could strike. Her red lips stretched over too sharp teeth, her rosy face nestled in a mess of curls, the witcher could see his death in her eyes.

Then, a loud thump echoed in the room and her delicate, deadly features twisted with pain. Her free hand flew to cradle the back of her head. The ice groaned and breaked as it cracked. Just enough for Geralt to free his arm. 

It fell down hard, guided as much by gravity as by a deliberate choice on his part. It fell clumsily, numbly on the sorceress lip which burst an even deeper red where the pitcher hit. She wailed. Geralt landed another blow, his grip surer and his muscles waking from their frozen slumber. Harder. Again and again and again until he felt something _give_.

The witcher breathed deep as the adrenaline began to leave his body. The smell of blood invaded his nose, unwelcome, but familiar, and he took in the aftermath of his anger. Shards of broken pottery and peeks off bright, white bones among a mess of flayed flesh; it was all that was left of the beautiful sorceress. 

“Geralt?”

Jaskier. The witcher glanced gingerly at the man, still naked and attempting to sit up. He was rubbing the back of his head with a wince. 

“I think I hit my head too hard. You're welcome, by the way. I'll be sure to put emphasis on how I heroically injured myself to save the life of a witcher when I write a song about this.”

Geralt could've sworn he heard Jaskier's teeth clack from the other side of the room in his haste to shut his mouth once he realized what had come out of it. The bard cringed at the sight of them: disheveled, battered, erections long gone and covered in a truly staggering variety of bodily fluids.

“Right. It might be best for that tale to remain untold.” Jaskier rectified. “I am sorry, you know, for the songs. If it wasn't for those, she might not have asked these things of you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed “I don't care about the songs at the moment. Are you okay?”

The poet shrugged.

“A bit dizzy.”

That might be a problem. Geralt marched over to him and looked him in the eyes. They seemed clear.

“Nauseous?”

He felt Jaskier's fortunately intact skull under the beginning of an impressive bump.

“Ow! Yes, I am!” his bard shrieked, scandalized. “You busted that woman's head like an overripe melon and you are spreading her brain matter all over my hair, you barbarian!”

Despite the circumstances, Geralt felt the beginning of a smile tug at his lips. Jaskier seemed lively enough.

“Ready to get out of here?” he asked.

His friend sobered up instantly, hands stilling in the hair they were trying to wipe. He looked up at Geralt with open, earnest blue eyes.

“I understand if you never want to talk about this, or to me even, again, but I just wanted you to know... Actually, there are lots of things I've wanted to tell you these last few months, not all of them nice things...”

“We'll have plenty of time to talk on the road.” Geralt hesitated, suddenly unsure. “That is, if you want to come with me?”

There was a beat of silence during which Jaskier just looked at him. Then his face softened and he extended his hand.

“Alright. Help me up?”

Geralt wiped his bloody hand on his shirt before fitting Jaskier's warm palm against his own. They were both hurt in many ways, far from being fine, but, for a moment, Geralt allowed himself to think they would be.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt on the witcher kink meme:  
> Geralt/Jaskier, enemies make them do it  
> They're forced into having sex by coercion (rather than by magic/sex pollen). If one refuses the other will be killed or tortured, so they submit, but with lots of guilt and reluctance on both sides (especially Geralt). They could be imprisoned by a mage who wants entertainment or a bunch of soldiers, whatever's handy.


End file.
